A Path All Their Own
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Paul has to talk to Slim Marcus from The Singing Skirt for a case. He isn't quite prepared for anything he finds in Slim's new establishment.


**Perry Mason**

 **A Path All Their Own**

 **By Lucky_Ladybug**

 **Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I was thinking how I've never actually included Slim Marcus from** _ **The Case of the Singing Skirt**_ **in a** _ **Perry**_ **story, even though I've used him occasionally in stories for other series. I decided it was time to use him in a story for the series he actually hails from.**

It wasn't often that Paul Drake's cases took him to Gardena, that little area of Los Angeles where casino-style gambling was legal. And a case had never before brought him to this particular casino. He slipped through the opening doors, nodding to the doorman stationed nearby, and stood looking around the large, well-lit room.

Snakes Tolliver was dealing at one of the poker tables. Sometimes Paul wondered what had made him decide to go to work for Slim. For a long time he had been a patron of the casino instead of a dealer. He always stood out, not just because of the snake-shaped scar running the length of the left side of his face, but also because he had a strange affinity for the clothing of yester-century. Whenever Paul saw him, he was dressed like a 1860s riverboat gambler.

A young Asian-American kid, probably no older than the absolute limit for who could be admitted to a gambling casino, was dealing at another table. He cast a look towards Snakes, who sensed it and looked to him. Some private message passed between them before they returned to their duties.

Well, no matter. Paul turned away, facing the bar. His quarry was sitting there, drink in hand, as Paul had heard was common when it got to be late at night. He approached, leaning on the bar with one arm. "Hi, Slim."

Slim Marcus, the owner and proprietor of the casino, slowly turned to look at him. "What are you doing here, Drake?"

"Just following up on a case. That's all." Paul straightened. "I got a report that you went out to see Mrs. Betty Ennis yesterday. Why?"

"Why don't you ask her?" Slim seemed ever so slightly drunk in the way he spoke and the way he swayed just briefly as he held his glass out.

"She said I should ask you," Paul told him.

Slim grunted. "Well, I'm not fooling around with other guys' wives again, if that's what you're thinking. I've sworn off that kind of Pandora's Box."

"That's nice to know, but it doesn't answer the question," Paul replied.

That brought a scowl. "I went out there to try to apologize for the past. There, you've got what you want."

Paul blinked in surprise. "You wanted to apologize for framing her for the death you caused?"

"Accidental death," Slim interjected. "Vivian was the one who picked up the gun in the first place, when I objected to her telling Anclitas that I'd gone behind his back to cheat Vivian's husband and get his money for her and me. She told me it was either that or she'd kill me. And I believed her! If you'd seen her, you would've known she was serious. I was trying to get the gun away from her when it went off." He slammed the glass on the counter. "Then I was too stupid to tell that to the police, so I dug myself into a worse mess than I would've had otherwise."

"No arguments there," Paul remarked. "But you said _try_ to apologize. Does that imply that it didn't work?"

Slim gave him a dark smirk. "It didn't, really. Ennis didn't want me to talk to Betty at all. You can't really blame him. He all but kicked me out of the house. Said that I should have got Life for making it look like Betty killed Vivian on purpose. Maybe he's right. I don't know."

"I don't know either, Marcus, but Della figured you wouldn't have flipped and spilled the truth in court if you weren't feeling pretty guilty for what you did," Paul said. "I'd like to think you wouldn't have let Betty get convicted for something you did, even if Anclitas hadn't tried to throttle you."

"I'd like to think that too," Slim said. "But I'm really a coward, Drake, or I wouldn't have done any of that garbage in the first place. Who knows how far I would've taken it?"

Now Paul was sure he was drunk. "It doesn't really matter anyway," he said. "Everything worked out okay in the end, even for you."

"Yeah, you could say that." Abruptly Slim's manner changed. "So do you have what you wanted to know now?"

"Not entirely," Paul replied. "You had other chances to apologize to Betty. Why did you pick yesterday?"

Slim shrugged. "Why does an alcoholic wake up one day and say 'I'm going to be sober today' and actually succeed? Why does someone debate for ages on whether to make a momentous decision and one day make a decision for real?" He shook his head. "There wasn't any special reason why I picked yesterday. It just suddenly seemed like a good idea, and I had some spare time, so I tried to do it." He frowned. "I know that's not the kind of answer detectives like to hear, but sometimes it really is the truth."

Paul finally nodded. "Okay, Marcus. I'll believe you."

"So what's with all this anyway?" Slim demanded. "What does it matter if I went to see Betty yesterday?"

Paul looked at him hard. "Someone threatened Betty last night."

"What?" A bit of genuine concern flashed in Slim's eyes. "Is she hurt?"

"No, it was a telephone threat," Paul replied. "But she was pretty shaken up."

"Well, it wasn't me!" Slim snapped. "What would I do that for? We don't even have any association anymore. We were kind of friendly at The Big Barn, but that was before everything hit the fan."

"I didn't think you were doing it, but I had to check all bases." Paul peered at him. "Do you have any idea who might want to threaten her?"

Slim shrugged. "I guess George Anclitas is always a possibility, but I think he'd really rather pretend she doesn't exist."

"Like he does with you?" Paul put in.

"Yeah, pretty much. We don't even operate in the same area anymore. He's still in Rowena. I'm surprised they didn't ride him out on a rail."

Paul nodded. Both men had had their share of trouble in getting back on their feet after the ugly truth came out about them. George Anclitas had a difficult time getting any girls to work for him once it was known that he liked to have his way with them and would frame them with marijuana cigarettes and stolen guns if they angered him. And Slim Marcus, convicted for framing Betty for the accidental death he had caused, had had quite a time of it himself. No one knew if he would try bilking other wealthy customers or resort to Anclitas' methods if someone got on his bad side. Some doubted his story of Vivian Ennis being the one to pick up the gun and still suspected he was a murderer who had escaped with a slap on the wrist. They wondered, too, if he might do it again.

Paul wondered if people like Snakes Tolliver and that young kid were the only ones Slim had been able to get to work for him now. But Snakes was good at what he did; Paul knew he had been at the top of his game once, long ago in the place from which he hailed. And the boy looked familiar too, really, although Paul couldn't place him at the moment.

"So how's business treating you?" he asked at last.

"Fine," Slim grunted. "Is there any doubt?"

"I kind of wondered," Paul said. "You've got some . . . _interesting_ dealers."

"They're good," Slim said gruffly. "They bring in good money for the house."

"So there's no need for you to take any little jobs on the side?" Paul asked.

Slim frowned now. "Like threatening Betty? No! Have you even talked to Anclitas yet?"

"Yeah." Paul pushed away from the bar. "He denied threatening her too. And he suggested I talk to you."

"He would," Slim grumped.

"Frankly, I don't think either of you is behind this," Paul said. "But that doesn't mean I won't keep watching you."

"Knock yourself out, Drake," Slim replied with a bored and resigned wave of his hand.

"I'm going to hope you don't mean that literally," Paul quipped.

"Take it whatever way you want," said Slim.

"Well, you're in a friendly mood," Paul commented, somewhat ironically.

"Be glad you didn't catch me in a bad one," Slim said without skipping a beat. "I'm used to the ex-con curse that states that any time something goes wrong, the ex-cons are the first suspects. It makes sense, after all. We brought our bad luck on ourselves, so why should we complain if we just keep reaping the consequences of our actions?"

"I think some ex-cons figure that they've tried hard to turn their lives around and they don't like being suspected of something they wouldn't do anymore," Paul said.

"I didn't say I _liked_ it," Slim said dryly. "I said I'm _used_ to it."

"Touché," Paul conceded.

He was slightly surprised when Snakes suddenly approached him from the side. "What's the trouble here?" he asked warily, his gravelly Southern accent coming through strong.

"There's no trouble, Snakes," Slim sighed, looking weary. "Mr. Drake was just asking about something that happened to someone I know."

"And thinking you did it?" Snakes guessed.

"Just asking," Paul said calmly.

"You don't really think he'd tell you if he did, do you?" Snakes regarded Paul in disbelief.

"No," Paul replied. "I just wanted to see how convincing his denial was." He started to step away. "I'm going now."

"Goodnight," Slim grunted.

Paul could feel them both watching him as he headed for the door. As if that wasn't enough, the kid got up from his table and met Paul when he passed by. "What's going on?" he frowned.

"Your boss isn't in any trouble," Paul said wearily. "But aren't you a little young to be doing this?"

The kid folded his arms. "I'm old enough."

Paul shrugged. "Suit yourself." He paused. "Wait a minute. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before. Weren't you on the news recently? You're some genius entrepreneur from Oregon who created an internationally renowned game. Then you had some trouble with drug smugglers setting up shop right in your store."

"If you know all of that, how about you tell me why I'm dealing cards in a casino instead of running my store," the kid replied, twirling a lock of shoulder-length black hair around his finger.

"I honestly don't know," Paul frowned. "I thought you were cleared of any wrongdoing."

The kid's eyes clouded. "I was. But that's all you're getting out of me, Mr. Drake."

"Okay." Paul held up his hands as he started to walk away. "I won't pry. See you later." He didn't say the rest of what he had just remembered. The boy's store manager and best friend had ended up killed before the criminals had been brought to justice. And the boy, unable to cope with it and not wanting to replace his friend, had run himself ragged working both his job and his manager's.

When Paul had heard about him on the news recently, it had been when he had left his store in the care of an assistant manager and departed his hometown altogether. According to the nosy reporter, he had been in danger of a nervous breakdown and was searching for peace of mind somewhere else, away from all the reminders of his friend's death. Paul wondered if he blamed himself.

He also wondered if he was starting to have an idea of what these people were doing here, gravitating to each other. Snakes, the kid, even Slim himself, all seemed to be lost souls looking for something more.

He wondered then if any of them would ever find it.

They continued to stare after him until he passed back through the doors. Now that Paul had a new idea of what they wanted here, it seemed a bittersweet, even sad, gaze.

He really hoped he wouldn't have to come back. Yet on the other hand, he couldn't help wondering if he would find a more hopeful scene if someday he did.

That was a nice thought to take with him as he got into his car and swiftly departed from Gardena.


End file.
